Once again, the world changes....
Add to the list of things I love:
giggling in bed.
Especially in a waterbed, which multiplies the gigglebounce factor.
Exponentially.
30 January, 2004
29 January, 2004
...breathless...
Him:
"I do recall your illuminating golden aura! You could read by the light you bring into the room!"
Me:
"oh, gods, where's a chair, my knees have turned to water."
Good thing he can't see me.
Even if he was being sarcastic (I'm never sure, with him) that one's for sure going on my list of favorite quotes, 2004. Along with Connie's:
"Dress like a mother? Whose mother? A regular mother, or Garrett's mother? Because if it's Garrett's mother, it's gonna be sexy."
"I do recall your illuminating golden aura! You could read by the light you bring into the room!"
Me:
"oh, gods, where's a chair, my knees have turned to water."
Good thing he can't see me.
Even if he was being sarcastic (I'm never sure, with him) that one's for sure going on my list of favorite quotes, 2004. Along with Connie's:
"Dress like a mother? Whose mother? A regular mother, or Garrett's mother? Because if it's Garrett's mother, it's gonna be sexy."
Frozen Attack
Once again, the world changes....
Ice clad trees shook angry limbs at me, pelting me with tiny deadly crystal daggers. Chill wind blew dustings of snow across paths recently cleared. Two salt trucks braved my hill, changing powdered fluff to hostile acid on tender paws of pampered dogs.
Sun beams in brave patches while the sky holds its breath, saturated with the color of storm.
Ice clad trees shook angry limbs at me, pelting me with tiny deadly crystal daggers. Chill wind blew dustings of snow across paths recently cleared. Two salt trucks braved my hill, changing powdered fluff to hostile acid on tender paws of pampered dogs.
Sun beams in brave patches while the sky holds its breath, saturated with the color of storm.
28 January, 2004
Postcard of Winter
Once again, the world changes....
I step out into the crackling white world, intent on shoveling a bit of path for myself, my neighbors. Ice-coated branches rattle together like shiny bones. I trudge up the hill to remove frozen treachery from behind and in front of the car, handily parked for a quick exit into slush and slime. The empty spot in front of me is extra long, testifying to D.-across-the-street's van having been in recent occupation. A bit of salt in a pile towards the front is stained red, and a scarlet trail leads away from the spot of naked pavement, as though the van bled as it moved.
A horde of crows congregate in a cherry tree, waiting, waiting, waiting. There will be no salt truck down our road, no plow truck, and presumably, no garbage truck. I did not think crowes had collective consciousness: could these, then, be the same crows from last year, with more memory than I would have credited them with having, waiting for garbage uncollected on our street?
Cat prints trail around my feet, in a straight line, one print identical to the others, in a line, a chain, like pearls strung along a cord. The bushes wink at me, crystal coral formations in the yard.
I step out into the crackling white world, intent on shoveling a bit of path for myself, my neighbors. Ice-coated branches rattle together like shiny bones. I trudge up the hill to remove frozen treachery from behind and in front of the car, handily parked for a quick exit into slush and slime. The empty spot in front of me is extra long, testifying to D.-across-the-street's van having been in recent occupation. A bit of salt in a pile towards the front is stained red, and a scarlet trail leads away from the spot of naked pavement, as though the van bled as it moved.
A horde of crows congregate in a cherry tree, waiting, waiting, waiting. There will be no salt truck down our road, no plow truck, and presumably, no garbage truck. I did not think crowes had collective consciousness: could these, then, be the same crows from last year, with more memory than I would have credited them with having, waiting for garbage uncollected on our street?
Cat prints trail around my feet, in a straight line, one print identical to the others, in a line, a chain, like pearls strung along a cord. The bushes wink at me, crystal coral formations in the yard.
26 January, 2004
Third Haldeman
Once again, the world changes....
My second Haldeman lasted one rehearsal. He blew me away with his Goth-Matrix-Malcom inspired monochrome black beauty, and had the audacity to resemble a dear friend of mine whom I hold in high regard, only moreso...and never showed up again.
He'd gotten a better offer.
My first Haldeman did not make it to the first rehearsal, just before the first one finally managing to spit out a straight "no"- an improvement upon the previous monthlong infernal verbal waffling, which, in his mind perhaps MEANT no, but I'm the sort of person who needs to hear NO to believe it.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. He is, after all, a lawyer.
My third Haldeman has been at one rehearsal. I hope he lasts.
While not at all the physical type I was looking for (CJ says, physical type? physical type? how about BREATHING?), this actor seems not only enthusiastic and motivated, he's worked with a lot of these folk before and would be unlikely to want to lose face.
By all accounts, in addition to being a talented actor with a wonderful voice (which I remember from seeing him perform), this man is also a sweetheart who won't let us down. A good thing. I really can't handle any more disappointments in my life.
But I reserve judgement, and forebear to have hope...probably until Opening Night.
Steve surprised me on Thursday:
"In this meeting, which was about a product I found out JUST TODAY was hypothetical..."
what was it, steve?
"Vaginal microbocide."
what?
(A lengthy explaination followed.)
"Anyway, at this meeting..."
yes..
"There was this girl, dead ringer for you, maybe a few years younger..."
hmf. how old do you think I am?
"Okay, she was EXACTLY your age, maybe older, even, and she was wearing this wonderful perfume. It was incredibly distracting."
so did you find out the name of it?
"NO! I'm not gonna walk up to a girl I just met and ask her, 'Excuse me, but what is that fabulous fragrance you're wearing?' I'd be marked as a dirty old man. Or a fag."
(A longish pause follows.)
"I know what it tastes like, though."
okay, so you won't ask her the name of her perfume, but you'll walk up and LICK her?
"Us guys, we have our ways of casually bumping into..."
He had me going for awhile. He really did.
Thinking about it, I really can't imagine Steve casually bumping into anyone. First off, he's too big to do it unobtrusively, and second, he's too graceful to do it at all.
Tease me from a thousand miles away...
Well, it amuses us both.
My second Haldeman lasted one rehearsal. He blew me away with his Goth-Matrix-Malcom inspired monochrome black beauty, and had the audacity to resemble a dear friend of mine whom I hold in high regard, only moreso...and never showed up again.
He'd gotten a better offer.
My first Haldeman did not make it to the first rehearsal, just before the first one finally managing to spit out a straight "no"- an improvement upon the previous monthlong infernal verbal waffling, which, in his mind perhaps MEANT no, but I'm the sort of person who needs to hear NO to believe it.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. He is, after all, a lawyer.
My third Haldeman has been at one rehearsal. I hope he lasts.
While not at all the physical type I was looking for (CJ says, physical type? physical type? how about BREATHING?), this actor seems not only enthusiastic and motivated, he's worked with a lot of these folk before and would be unlikely to want to lose face.
By all accounts, in addition to being a talented actor with a wonderful voice (which I remember from seeing him perform), this man is also a sweetheart who won't let us down. A good thing. I really can't handle any more disappointments in my life.
But I reserve judgement, and forebear to have hope...probably until Opening Night.
Steve surprised me on Thursday:
"In this meeting, which was about a product I found out JUST TODAY was hypothetical..."
what was it, steve?
"Vaginal microbocide."
what?
(A lengthy explaination followed.)
"Anyway, at this meeting..."
yes..
"There was this girl, dead ringer for you, maybe a few years younger..."
hmf. how old do you think I am?
"Okay, she was EXACTLY your age, maybe older, even, and she was wearing this wonderful perfume. It was incredibly distracting."
so did you find out the name of it?
"NO! I'm not gonna walk up to a girl I just met and ask her, 'Excuse me, but what is that fabulous fragrance you're wearing?' I'd be marked as a dirty old man. Or a fag."
(A longish pause follows.)
"I know what it tastes like, though."
okay, so you won't ask her the name of her perfume, but you'll walk up and LICK her?
"Us guys, we have our ways of casually bumping into..."
He had me going for awhile. He really did.
Thinking about it, I really can't imagine Steve casually bumping into anyone. First off, he's too big to do it unobtrusively, and second, he's too graceful to do it at all.
Tease me from a thousand miles away...
Well, it amuses us both.
25 January, 2004
Once again, the world changes....
"I thought you were going to work on the computer?" This is code for "Don't come over here wanting cuddles or conversation; I am reading my new Warhammer magazine." Not even 48 hours home, and he's already craving solitude.
Me:
"No, my lover did NOT leave his tighty-whiteys washed and folded neatly in your drawer."
Him:
"I didn't say...."
I know.
Some well-meaning relative bought very large briefs for my son, which, by virtue of not having Spiderman or Harry Potter emblazoned on them, wind up, by default, in Hawk's clean laundry.
Me:
"My lover doesn't wear underwear when he comes over here to visit me."
No. I didn't. But I wanted to.
"I thought you were going to work on the computer?" This is code for "Don't come over here wanting cuddles or conversation; I am reading my new Warhammer magazine." Not even 48 hours home, and he's already craving solitude.
Me:
"No, my lover did NOT leave his tighty-whiteys washed and folded neatly in your drawer."
Him:
"I didn't say...."
I know.
Some well-meaning relative bought very large briefs for my son, which, by virtue of not having Spiderman or Harry Potter emblazoned on them, wind up, by default, in Hawk's clean laundry.
Me:
"My lover doesn't wear underwear when he comes over here to visit me."
No. I didn't. But I wanted to.
20 January, 2004
Alone in the World
Once again, the world changes....
The last time I was on blades, I felt wonderfully enabled.
Today, I simply feel awkward.
Of course, we shouldn't have gone. It is very cold, and windy, and my bones ache a warning at me. But I had promised, and the children want very badly to go, and try out Their Very Own second-hand store skates.
It is always interesting to have the world to ourselves, and we notice that this afternoon, the three of us, alone in the rink, skating every which way, instead of in repetative ovals. Because my focus is on the surface of the ice, the chill of the air, and the sensation of my feet in strange gear, I am uneasy. The ice seems slicker than it ought to be. I notice that my strokes are uneven, that I balance better on the right than the left, that I can turn this way but not that....I should be grateful to be skating at all. And I am; I simply want to be perfect, to be flexible, to be strong, to be as invincible as I believed I was before October the 10th.
The children are less joyous than last time, when their friends were here. Garrett falls, striking his head. He allows me to coax him back onto the ice for a bit (the get back on the horse school, call me old-fashioned), and then we make our exit after Alaina falls on her tailbone. She is more affronted than injured, but an injury of pride still smarts. We go for hot chocolate at a sweet cafe across the way...which we have to ourselves. Complimentary Internet sucks me in for a bit. Next, my favorite used bookstore. Which we have to ourselves. Why can't I get out of that place without spending twenty dollars?
We return home, where it is not strange that just the three of us exist, sadly. Rehearsal allows us all the oportunity to be with people, though I am separate in my mental gyrations, trying to shape the visuals of this play. I feel, from time to time, the cast giving me odd looks. Absently, briefly, I wonder what is the cause of that, what they think of me, then inhale and move on.
I drive a cast member to his home: his mother won't be off work for another half hour. By the time I pull up to the house, both children are asleep. In the house and off to bed they go; I am alone once more.
The last time I was on blades, I felt wonderfully enabled.
Today, I simply feel awkward.
Of course, we shouldn't have gone. It is very cold, and windy, and my bones ache a warning at me. But I had promised, and the children want very badly to go, and try out Their Very Own second-hand store skates.
It is always interesting to have the world to ourselves, and we notice that this afternoon, the three of us, alone in the rink, skating every which way, instead of in repetative ovals. Because my focus is on the surface of the ice, the chill of the air, and the sensation of my feet in strange gear, I am uneasy. The ice seems slicker than it ought to be. I notice that my strokes are uneven, that I balance better on the right than the left, that I can turn this way but not that....I should be grateful to be skating at all. And I am; I simply want to be perfect, to be flexible, to be strong, to be as invincible as I believed I was before October the 10th.
The children are less joyous than last time, when their friends were here. Garrett falls, striking his head. He allows me to coax him back onto the ice for a bit (the get back on the horse school, call me old-fashioned), and then we make our exit after Alaina falls on her tailbone. She is more affronted than injured, but an injury of pride still smarts. We go for hot chocolate at a sweet cafe across the way...which we have to ourselves. Complimentary Internet sucks me in for a bit. Next, my favorite used bookstore. Which we have to ourselves. Why can't I get out of that place without spending twenty dollars?
We return home, where it is not strange that just the three of us exist, sadly. Rehearsal allows us all the oportunity to be with people, though I am separate in my mental gyrations, trying to shape the visuals of this play. I feel, from time to time, the cast giving me odd looks. Absently, briefly, I wonder what is the cause of that, what they think of me, then inhale and move on.
I drive a cast member to his home: his mother won't be off work for another half hour. By the time I pull up to the house, both children are asleep. In the house and off to bed they go; I am alone once more.
19 January, 2004
View Through Windshield
Once again, the world changes....
A strange haze filters through the trees. Sun falls warm against my cheek. A voice on the radio implores, "...let me be your hero..."
A vulture swoops into my field of vision.
I drive, drive, drive to a village near the water. It is a good day to drive. I am happy to be engaged in the activity of driving, though without a stickshift, there is less action.
I am meeting someone ten minutes from her home, an hour and ten from mine. Fair is fair; she came to my house when I was disabled. I enjoy her company. I am learning to enjoy the company of women, a brand new skill for me.
Heading homeward on Chesapeake/Myrtle/Friendship, (prosaically, 261), I am hard-pressed to not hit the Honda hatchback dawdling in front of me as I steal glances at the water through the trees, between the houses.
A misty shape of mystery taunts me at horizon's edge. Last time I was here, fingertips and forehead pressed to a plateglass window, Sid, reading my mind, or my face, if there's a difference, told me what it was. I wish my memory were better.
When the road wanders closer to the water, I see choppy waves of ice, frozen like stucco to the shore. Passing the marina, I count five separate herds of geese and one fleet of gulls whose backs shine blue in the strong afternoon sun.
A strange haze filters through the trees. Sun falls warm against my cheek. A voice on the radio implores, "...let me be your hero..."
A vulture swoops into my field of vision.
I drive, drive, drive to a village near the water. It is a good day to drive. I am happy to be engaged in the activity of driving, though without a stickshift, there is less action.
I am meeting someone ten minutes from her home, an hour and ten from mine. Fair is fair; she came to my house when I was disabled. I enjoy her company. I am learning to enjoy the company of women, a brand new skill for me.
Heading homeward on Chesapeake/Myrtle/Friendship, (prosaically, 261), I am hard-pressed to not hit the Honda hatchback dawdling in front of me as I steal glances at the water through the trees, between the houses.
A misty shape of mystery taunts me at horizon's edge. Last time I was here, fingertips and forehead pressed to a plateglass window, Sid, reading my mind, or my face, if there's a difference, told me what it was. I wish my memory were better.
When the road wanders closer to the water, I see choppy waves of ice, frozen like stucco to the shore. Passing the marina, I count five separate herds of geese and one fleet of gulls whose backs shine blue in the strong afternoon sun.
17 January, 2004
Love in the Key of D
Once again, the world changes....
If I have failed to mention JB, I have been remiss.
JB is an enabler. He enables my dream.
I dream of Watergate! the Musical, meet JB, and shazam!.....a creation.
I enjoyed the research. I enjoyed the writing. But most of all, I enjoyed creating music with JB. Throughout the spring and summer, we met at his home, where our children would play (for the most part) nicely in the basement. He said (more than once) "How should it go? Sing it for me." NOBODY asks me to sing. Well, my children, who don't know any better. And JB, who took the tunes that were in my head, imperfectly rendered in my imperfect voice, and created them even better than my imagination.
I marvel at his genius.
Today, I watch him work.
Late to Watergate! rehearsal, after attending in my capacity as a parent the first portion of the first Really Rosie rehearsal, I enter to quiet. JB is speaking to the group, assembled facing him, backs to me. I unobtrusively find a seat near the only other person who is not singing, Jose. JB is teaching the cast How Could You, Mr. President?, which is dirge-like and heartwrenching. This is the number that overlays Nixon's resignation speech, and it's gorgeous. JB turns the cast into a choir as I snuggle up to Jose and show him the cuts in the speech. The music under the speech, the song between the paragraphs, the sorrow and anger, the rise and fall of voices harmonically blended brings tears to my eyes.
Next, work on the finale, Autobiography, which is a wonderful piece also, and the rehearsal finishes with a review of the opener, Saturday Night: Massacre! CJ enters with rehearsal schedules to hand out, and Jose and the cast perform How Could You for her. Her eyes gleam suspiciously, but all she says is, "I think the audience will sit still for it."
JB has taken my words, the clumsy ones, the clever ones, and made of them exquisite works ofaudible beauty. Amazing and incredible, he.
The irritating, sudden loss of my second Haldeman actor seems far less significant now.
Tonight, with gentle click and shush of frozen water against frozen ground, white confetti fills my picture window, illuminated by the streetlamp across the way. Awake I remain, like Robert Frost, to watch my neighborhood fill up with snow.
If I have failed to mention JB, I have been remiss.
JB is an enabler. He enables my dream.
I dream of Watergate! the Musical, meet JB, and shazam!.....a creation.
I enjoyed the research. I enjoyed the writing. But most of all, I enjoyed creating music with JB. Throughout the spring and summer, we met at his home, where our children would play (for the most part) nicely in the basement. He said (more than once) "How should it go? Sing it for me." NOBODY asks me to sing. Well, my children, who don't know any better. And JB, who took the tunes that were in my head, imperfectly rendered in my imperfect voice, and created them even better than my imagination.
I marvel at his genius.
Today, I watch him work.
Late to Watergate! rehearsal, after attending in my capacity as a parent the first portion of the first Really Rosie rehearsal, I enter to quiet. JB is speaking to the group, assembled facing him, backs to me. I unobtrusively find a seat near the only other person who is not singing, Jose. JB is teaching the cast How Could You, Mr. President?, which is dirge-like and heartwrenching. This is the number that overlays Nixon's resignation speech, and it's gorgeous. JB turns the cast into a choir as I snuggle up to Jose and show him the cuts in the speech. The music under the speech, the song between the paragraphs, the sorrow and anger, the rise and fall of voices harmonically blended brings tears to my eyes.
Next, work on the finale, Autobiography, which is a wonderful piece also, and the rehearsal finishes with a review of the opener, Saturday Night: Massacre! CJ enters with rehearsal schedules to hand out, and Jose and the cast perform How Could You for her. Her eyes gleam suspiciously, but all she says is, "I think the audience will sit still for it."
JB has taken my words, the clumsy ones, the clever ones, and made of them exquisite works ofaudible beauty. Amazing and incredible, he.
The irritating, sudden loss of my second Haldeman actor seems far less significant now.
Tonight, with gentle click and shush of frozen water against frozen ground, white confetti fills my picture window, illuminated by the streetlamp across the way. Awake I remain, like Robert Frost, to watch my neighborhood fill up with snow.
16 January, 2004
Surreal
Once again, the world changes....
"Do you like surrealism?"
Surrealism is my life.
"No, but do you like the surrealist artists?"
Yep.
Off we go, after some quickfire planning to...where? I don't care. We ride Metro, (not THE metro, but Metro, as though it were the name of a horse), and poetry strikes as we emerge from the DuPont Circle tunnel.
Inside the gallery, I discover that I can spot a Picasso at ten paces and a Pollock at fifteen. That I adore Salvador Dali, who created " hand painted dream photographs" and have made a new favorite in Yves Tanguy. "...Tanguy soon found his own manner of transforming his dreams into a subtle, luminous, and floating interior world."
I sit backward on a bench, turning upside down to properly view a painting by Georgia O'Keeffe, of which the artist said "was done so that it could be hung with any end up." However, the way the museum has hung it, in accordance with the preference of the artist, the image appears to be a squid squirting green ink into a starry sea. As I look at it upside down, it becomes, of course, The Lawrence Tree.
Fascination strikes: the hydrothermographs that stud each room, which in the first room, I mistook for art. I remember a time in a gallery of modern sculpture admiring a creation of metal pipe, searching for the artist and title plate in vain, informed by the docent that the piece I viewed so avidly was in fact a radiator.
Cindy's favorite is Rene Magritte, whose works are here dreadfully underrepresented. I am more fond of two canvasses by Piet Mondrian, whose works seem familiar, though no specific memories arise. Before we leave, she suggests I take another pass through, as the exhibit closes in three days. I accept, with gratitude when I discover I had bypassed a Matisse, and a painting by Diego Rivera of a little girl who stares at me with baleful dark eyes.
I return to take another look at the gigantic Dali entitled Apparition of a Face and Fruit Dish on a Beach, which is, despite my devotion to Picasso, my pick for best of show. As I exit, I take a moment to caress a curved oak chair with a silver velveteen cushion on the seat. "You like the chair?" the docent asks. He's young and dark skinned, with a lovely smile. "Art is where you see it," I answer, and head downstairs to meet Cindy in the gift shop.
"Do you like surrealism?"
Surrealism is my life.
"No, but do you like the surrealist artists?"
Yep.
Off we go, after some quickfire planning to...where? I don't care. We ride Metro, (not THE metro, but Metro, as though it were the name of a horse), and poetry strikes as we emerge from the DuPont Circle tunnel.
Inside the gallery, I discover that I can spot a Picasso at ten paces and a Pollock at fifteen. That I adore Salvador Dali, who created " hand painted dream photographs" and have made a new favorite in Yves Tanguy. "...Tanguy soon found his own manner of transforming his dreams into a subtle, luminous, and floating interior world."
I sit backward on a bench, turning upside down to properly view a painting by Georgia O'Keeffe, of which the artist said "was done so that it could be hung with any end up." However, the way the museum has hung it, in accordance with the preference of the artist, the image appears to be a squid squirting green ink into a starry sea. As I look at it upside down, it becomes, of course, The Lawrence Tree.
Fascination strikes: the hydrothermographs that stud each room, which in the first room, I mistook for art. I remember a time in a gallery of modern sculpture admiring a creation of metal pipe, searching for the artist and title plate in vain, informed by the docent that the piece I viewed so avidly was in fact a radiator.
Cindy's favorite is Rene Magritte, whose works are here dreadfully underrepresented. I am more fond of two canvasses by Piet Mondrian, whose works seem familiar, though no specific memories arise. Before we leave, she suggests I take another pass through, as the exhibit closes in three days. I accept, with gratitude when I discover I had bypassed a Matisse, and a painting by Diego Rivera of a little girl who stares at me with baleful dark eyes.
I return to take another look at the gigantic Dali entitled Apparition of a Face and Fruit Dish on a Beach, which is, despite my devotion to Picasso, my pick for best of show. As I exit, I take a moment to caress a curved oak chair with a silver velveteen cushion on the seat. "You like the chair?" the docent asks. He's young and dark skinned, with a lovely smile. "Art is where you see it," I answer, and head downstairs to meet Cindy in the gift shop.
15 January, 2004
Exhale
Once again, the world changes....
I begin with my second trip to Staples in the space of two hours. I flash a smile at George the Copy Guy, who flushes, and help myself to the self-service copier. Twenty dollars later, I am finished, laden with more poetry than I'll need. Anything to delay making a decision.
Aisha at the checkout counter looks at me curiously; I wave. You look nice, she says. I was wondering if you were twin sisters, or older sister- younger sister. I wonder which of us she thinks was older, the lipsticked scarf-wearing version that I am now, or the washed out just-rolled-out-of-bed one that she saw when I was in earlier, buying paper and ink.
As I drive, I pass near to the site of recent wreckage. Death toll stands at four, no IDs as yet. The news footage showed a charred black hole smouldering and smoking, choking out the sunset. My stomach clenches and I work to thrust the scene from my mind.
I arrive early enough to finalize my reading choices, and organize the copies for easy access. I am graciously welcomed by a woman named Pamela, who looks just as a librarian ought, who tells me I look just like her idea of a poet. Go on, build me up. I don't intend to tell you this is my Very First Reading.
I wear my Charming Artist face, the one that fools even me. I am introduced to, and cheerfully become enamoured of, a tiny darling woman named Lillian who taught school for fifty years. She will be reading, also. It doesn't hurt that she cups my cheek and tells me that I'm an exquisite creature. Guess I did a good job with the makeup today. Another librarian-reader, John, offers me a tour of the library. I take it.
Returning to the meeting room, we encounter my friends from MWA, Scott and Sherry Morrow, who happen to own three of my favorite young women, one of whom is with them. What have you been feeding Arianna? Purina Kid Chow, they reply. I'll feed mine the cheap brand, then: Arianna's grown four or six inches since I saw her last.
It is nearly ten of one when I am able to approach the coffee that's been set up. Furtively, I pull a turquoise napkin from my briefcase. In it is wrapped a tiny bottle of my friend Margaret's home-brewed kahlua. I offer to mix one for Sherry, as well. She is moderating, and her voice is already shaky. We haven't even started. I pour a healthy dose for her, and a smaller one for me. It's too late for bottled courage to help me now.
Pamela, beside me, is noticeably nervous. She wears more lipstick than when I met her twenty minutes ago. I send soothing energy at her, fearful of disturbing her composure with a hug.
Sherry makes introductions. Lillian reads two poems that she's always liked by a Baltimore poet, Countee Cullen. Sherry, voice still shaking, reads some poems from Scribble, the literary magazine that she edits. Then she calls me to read.
First.
First. I had hoped to be sandwiched in the middle, or to be at the end, fearing that I may make some folk uncomfortable with my stagey presence. I suppose Sherry felt that I wouldn't mind going first, and she was right.
After a brief bio and a plug for Watergate! the Musical, I begin to read. I am clear and distinct, rushing a bit, perhaps, stumbling only once, on the first line of the last poem. I begin with the brief Morning Mirror, move to the lengthy Letters Home, followed by Restraint and City Plows (appropriate, as there's snow in the forecast, evidenced by the sparse attendance) then finish with Exposure and Winter Sprite. There is applause. I sit.
Pamela is called next, and after a few bashful remarks about not wanting to follow me, she warms up, and is very well received. I close my eyes to listen to the poets who follow, for when I use my sense of sight, I write, or think, or make lists, under attack by my Monkey Mind.
The reading ends. I am thanked effusively. Sherry requests a copy of City Plows, Broken Or Not, for publication in Scribble. She confesses that she stays up to watch the snow fall, too. I hand her also copies of the poems I brought and did not read. It's an informal form of submission, but you never know. If Sherry includes City Plows in this issue or the next one, it marks my debut as a published poet.
I draw breath and exit the library. The phone rings. Hawk is calling from Detroit, where he is driving through a blizzard. Safe.
Exhale. The sun pushes through a hole torn in the clouds.
I begin with my second trip to Staples in the space of two hours. I flash a smile at George the Copy Guy, who flushes, and help myself to the self-service copier. Twenty dollars later, I am finished, laden with more poetry than I'll need. Anything to delay making a decision.
Aisha at the checkout counter looks at me curiously; I wave. You look nice, she says. I was wondering if you were twin sisters, or older sister- younger sister. I wonder which of us she thinks was older, the lipsticked scarf-wearing version that I am now, or the washed out just-rolled-out-of-bed one that she saw when I was in earlier, buying paper and ink.
As I drive, I pass near to the site of recent wreckage. Death toll stands at four, no IDs as yet. The news footage showed a charred black hole smouldering and smoking, choking out the sunset. My stomach clenches and I work to thrust the scene from my mind.
I arrive early enough to finalize my reading choices, and organize the copies for easy access. I am graciously welcomed by a woman named Pamela, who looks just as a librarian ought, who tells me I look just like her idea of a poet. Go on, build me up. I don't intend to tell you this is my Very First Reading.
I wear my Charming Artist face, the one that fools even me. I am introduced to, and cheerfully become enamoured of, a tiny darling woman named Lillian who taught school for fifty years. She will be reading, also. It doesn't hurt that she cups my cheek and tells me that I'm an exquisite creature. Guess I did a good job with the makeup today. Another librarian-reader, John, offers me a tour of the library. I take it.
Returning to the meeting room, we encounter my friends from MWA, Scott and Sherry Morrow, who happen to own three of my favorite young women, one of whom is with them. What have you been feeding Arianna? Purina Kid Chow, they reply. I'll feed mine the cheap brand, then: Arianna's grown four or six inches since I saw her last.
It is nearly ten of one when I am able to approach the coffee that's been set up. Furtively, I pull a turquoise napkin from my briefcase. In it is wrapped a tiny bottle of my friend Margaret's home-brewed kahlua. I offer to mix one for Sherry, as well. She is moderating, and her voice is already shaky. We haven't even started. I pour a healthy dose for her, and a smaller one for me. It's too late for bottled courage to help me now.
Pamela, beside me, is noticeably nervous. She wears more lipstick than when I met her twenty minutes ago. I send soothing energy at her, fearful of disturbing her composure with a hug.
Sherry makes introductions. Lillian reads two poems that she's always liked by a Baltimore poet, Countee Cullen. Sherry, voice still shaking, reads some poems from Scribble, the literary magazine that she edits. Then she calls me to read.
First.
First. I had hoped to be sandwiched in the middle, or to be at the end, fearing that I may make some folk uncomfortable with my stagey presence. I suppose Sherry felt that I wouldn't mind going first, and she was right.
After a brief bio and a plug for Watergate! the Musical, I begin to read. I am clear and distinct, rushing a bit, perhaps, stumbling only once, on the first line of the last poem. I begin with the brief Morning Mirror, move to the lengthy Letters Home, followed by Restraint and City Plows (appropriate, as there's snow in the forecast, evidenced by the sparse attendance) then finish with Exposure and Winter Sprite. There is applause. I sit.
Pamela is called next, and after a few bashful remarks about not wanting to follow me, she warms up, and is very well received. I close my eyes to listen to the poets who follow, for when I use my sense of sight, I write, or think, or make lists, under attack by my Monkey Mind.
The reading ends. I am thanked effusively. Sherry requests a copy of City Plows, Broken Or Not, for publication in Scribble. She confesses that she stays up to watch the snow fall, too. I hand her also copies of the poems I brought and did not read. It's an informal form of submission, but you never know. If Sherry includes City Plows in this issue or the next one, it marks my debut as a published poet.
I draw breath and exit the library. The phone rings. Hawk is calling from Detroit, where he is driving through a blizzard. Safe.
Exhale. The sun pushes through a hole torn in the clouds.
Interim
Once again, the world changes....
I e-mail Steve from the library, because I think he might like to know- he called me just as I was rushing out the door- and I got this response:
congratulations! (beat - beat - beat)
poetry (beat - beat)
babe (beat)
shimmer, glimmer and glow.
toothpaste!
Steve
If anyone's ever written poetry for me before, I didn't know about it.
I have a lot to say about yesterday, and should have done it last night, but I was up watching the snow fall, and even though it stopped around two, I snoozed restless on the sofa until six. But I got a really restfull hour and a half between six and seven thirty. Which, honestly, I prefer to the fitful nights I've been having. And I'm out the door in twenty, so no time just now.
**************************************************************
Catching up on Change Your Life:
Yesterday, day 14, was Compliment Someone day. So I did that, and was delighted by the delight I provoked. Random strangers like it when you notice their hair or jewelry. I stuck to complimenting women, feeling that would be safer.
Day 13, write a letter to a mass murderer day, I have not yet done. I'm not sure I will.
Day 12 was check off "your type" as a reminder at drunken parties. Not that I go, AND there wasn't a "romantic intellectual" type box to check off. Guess what? I made my own.
I have yet to check what Day 15 is. Something fun, I hope.
I e-mail Steve from the library, because I think he might like to know- he called me just as I was rushing out the door- and I got this response:
congratulations! (beat - beat - beat)
poetry (beat - beat)
babe (beat)
shimmer, glimmer and glow.
toothpaste!
Steve
If anyone's ever written poetry for me before, I didn't know about it.
I have a lot to say about yesterday, and should have done it last night, but I was up watching the snow fall, and even though it stopped around two, I snoozed restless on the sofa until six. But I got a really restfull hour and a half between six and seven thirty. Which, honestly, I prefer to the fitful nights I've been having. And I'm out the door in twenty, so no time just now.
**************************************************************
Catching up on Change Your Life:
Yesterday, day 14, was Compliment Someone day. So I did that, and was delighted by the delight I provoked. Random strangers like it when you notice their hair or jewelry. I stuck to complimenting women, feeling that would be safer.
Day 13, write a letter to a mass murderer day, I have not yet done. I'm not sure I will.
Day 12 was check off "your type" as a reminder at drunken parties. Not that I go, AND there wasn't a "romantic intellectual" type box to check off. Guess what? I made my own.
I have yet to check what Day 15 is. Something fun, I hope.
14 January, 2004
Implode
Once again, the world changes....
I discover that an adult human can dry off from a shower with a towel the size of a handkerchief. I do it to prove a point to a small child who insists on using two full sized towels to dry a pint-sized body. My point is ignored.
This, along with the knowlege that I can bathe in a bucketful of water, provided it has been at least slightly warmed by the sun, will, I hope, prove absolutely useless.
I move to brush my teeth, extracting the cat from his new favored position in the sink. His fur is silky sweet along my naked body, and I let him glide down gently, instead of rudely plopping him out the door.
I inhale fragrance of powder, soap, scented oils. Feel the brush against my scalp. Agonize over apparal, ending with the original outfit, down even to hoisery. Gulp down on the technicolor butterflies that threaten to burst out in a multihued belch, nerves about this afternoon's reading.
I am distracting myself from images of a spectacular firey tanker explosion, images of a truck careening, diving from an overpass onto traffic below, images of a fuel filled tank bellowing into brilliant orange blossoms.
Someone's husband is dead.
I can't reach Hawk.
I discover that an adult human can dry off from a shower with a towel the size of a handkerchief. I do it to prove a point to a small child who insists on using two full sized towels to dry a pint-sized body. My point is ignored.
This, along with the knowlege that I can bathe in a bucketful of water, provided it has been at least slightly warmed by the sun, will, I hope, prove absolutely useless.
I move to brush my teeth, extracting the cat from his new favored position in the sink. His fur is silky sweet along my naked body, and I let him glide down gently, instead of rudely plopping him out the door.
I inhale fragrance of powder, soap, scented oils. Feel the brush against my scalp. Agonize over apparal, ending with the original outfit, down even to hoisery. Gulp down on the technicolor butterflies that threaten to burst out in a multihued belch, nerves about this afternoon's reading.
I am distracting myself from images of a spectacular firey tanker explosion, images of a truck careening, diving from an overpass onto traffic below, images of a fuel filled tank bellowing into brilliant orange blossoms.
Someone's husband is dead.
I can't reach Hawk.
13 January, 2004
Sudden Beauty
Once again, the world changes....
He hooked me with dark eyes, eyes that refused to look away. I caught myself looking for excuses to speak to him. I had trouble looking anywhere else. With no idea of his age, his conversation, or what sort of ancient wisdom he's tapped into, I cannot fathom why I wanted to watch him.
I was reminded of something M. said, in the hour or so we spent together at a bar. He said, "Did you ever see something so beautiful it hurt to look at? You can't look at it for more than a minute, and you can't not look. So beautiful it hurts." And in the same breath, he claimed he was not coming on to me. So I laughed and ignored him. Now I feel badly, for I understand.
My last words to him were, "Give Mia a hug from me." Mia sent him to me. She did not warn me that he was beautiful.
Mia's husband.
We are all safe.
He hooked me with dark eyes, eyes that refused to look away. I caught myself looking for excuses to speak to him. I had trouble looking anywhere else. With no idea of his age, his conversation, or what sort of ancient wisdom he's tapped into, I cannot fathom why I wanted to watch him.
I was reminded of something M. said, in the hour or so we spent together at a bar. He said, "Did you ever see something so beautiful it hurt to look at? You can't look at it for more than a minute, and you can't not look. So beautiful it hurts." And in the same breath, he claimed he was not coming on to me. So I laughed and ignored him. Now I feel badly, for I understand.
My last words to him were, "Give Mia a hug from me." Mia sent him to me. She did not warn me that he was beautiful.
Mia's husband.
We are all safe.
12 January, 2004
Once again, the world changes....
Post-shower, I lay out two different sets of bra and panties that go together, because he likes that. Which?
Um.
He picks up each article, examining.
"These would be warmer, probably."
? and ??
You idiot. Stop taking care of me, and chose what you'd like to imagine under my clothes.
"That would be my hand."
Ah. With that comment, his practicality is forgiven.
Post-shower, I lay out two different sets of bra and panties that go together, because he likes that. Which?
Um.
He picks up each article, examining.
"These would be warmer, probably."
? and ??
You idiot. Stop taking care of me, and chose what you'd like to imagine under my clothes.
"That would be my hand."
Ah. With that comment, his practicality is forgiven.
11 January, 2004
Thoughts, Unrelated
Once again, the world changes....
As we were walking, Alaina piped up suddenly with, "God is Life. Life is not God, but God is Life. We are walking on God. God is all around." Brilliant. My five year old philosopher.
At one time, I knew someone who had a love affair end badly. The woman said she wanted to be 'just friends.' What he said was, "I already have plenty of friends." Brilliant.
And to continue this random vein, What do you call a single man who drives a four door sedan and carries Band-Aids in his wallet rather than condoms?
Obviously not compensating.
As we were walking, Alaina piped up suddenly with, "God is Life. Life is not God, but God is Life. We are walking on God. God is all around." Brilliant. My five year old philosopher.
At one time, I knew someone who had a love affair end badly. The woman said she wanted to be 'just friends.' What he said was, "I already have plenty of friends." Brilliant.
And to continue this random vein, What do you call a single man who drives a four door sedan and carries Band-Aids in his wallet rather than condoms?
Obviously not compensating.
10 January, 2004
Acrobatics of the Heart
Once again, the world changes....
My higher power says "get used to it." My higher power is trusting me to learn to be independant. I am resistant. There is a reason for this painful, ongoing lesson. I don't know what it is, and frankly I don't care, and wonder if I'm strong enough to learn it.
I'm just tired of spending such a huge portion of my life in tears.
Well. I was up at five, with the This Book Will Change Your Life specified task of "do something before breakfast." Does a load of laundry count? Probably, though it's less romantic than "watch the sun rise," which was one of the suggested activities, along with "milk a cow," "go for a five mile run" and "have sleepy sex." To be fair, I probably will watch the sun rise, while I'm engaging in another suggested activity, "check out what's on TV at this hour."
Nothing like being an overachiever.
My higher power says "get used to it." My higher power is trusting me to learn to be independant. I am resistant. There is a reason for this painful, ongoing lesson. I don't know what it is, and frankly I don't care, and wonder if I'm strong enough to learn it.
I'm just tired of spending such a huge portion of my life in tears.
Well. I was up at five, with the This Book Will Change Your Life specified task of "do something before breakfast." Does a load of laundry count? Probably, though it's less romantic than "watch the sun rise," which was one of the suggested activities, along with "milk a cow," "go for a five mile run" and "have sleepy sex." To be fair, I probably will watch the sun rise, while I'm engaging in another suggested activity, "check out what's on TV at this hour."
Nothing like being an overachiever.
09 January, 2004
Melancholy Day
Once again, the world changes....
Bright sunlight shone, a patch of promise, in the space between the clouds. A flock of geese flew North, an early signal that spring approaches, though we've the worst of winter yet to weather.
Today's task was to set my alarm for five and do something before breakfast.
I didn't quite see the point, as I was crawling into bed sometime around four thirty am.
I'll do it tomorrow.
Bright sunlight shone, a patch of promise, in the space between the clouds. A flock of geese flew North, an early signal that spring approaches, though we've the worst of winter yet to weather.
Today's task was to set my alarm for five and do something before breakfast.
I didn't quite see the point, as I was crawling into bed sometime around four thirty am.
I'll do it tomorrow.
08 January, 2004
What's Up With Her Today
Once again, the world changes....
Yesterday's task doesn't get a mention. If you're that interested, buy the book.
The day before, write the initial sentence in my debut novel. Something about the scream of a seagull, I don't remember, it was the day before yesterday, for god's sake.
Today is Addiction-Free day. Does the Internet count? If so, I'm not doing well, despite having foregone my morning coffee.
And, note to self:
There is just no knowing when people are going to surprise you. And in what way. The only thing to hope for is on-the-spot grace in handling the surprise. It's a big damn hope.
Yesterday's task doesn't get a mention. If you're that interested, buy the book.
The day before, write the initial sentence in my debut novel. Something about the scream of a seagull, I don't remember, it was the day before yesterday, for god's sake.
Today is Addiction-Free day. Does the Internet count? If so, I'm not doing well, despite having foregone my morning coffee.
And, note to self:
There is just no knowing when people are going to surprise you. And in what way. The only thing to hope for is on-the-spot grace in handling the surprise. It's a big damn hope.
06 January, 2004
Once again, the world changes....
I'm off to tangle with the kiddies and work on my little projects, some of which may result in clean socks for the family. Ugh, Ms Bombshell HATES the un-glam bits of her life. (Visual aid: a toss of my head, shaking my hair over one shoulder, and an imperious lift of my imperious nose) Well, I'll put on lipstick and pearl earrings, maybe that will make housework the TEENSIEST bit more bearable, hahahahahahahahahah.....
I'm off to tangle with the kiddies and work on my little projects, some of which may result in clean socks for the family. Ugh, Ms Bombshell HATES the un-glam bits of her life. (Visual aid: a toss of my head, shaking my hair over one shoulder, and an imperious lift of my imperious nose) Well, I'll put on lipstick and pearl earrings, maybe that will make housework the TEENSIEST bit more bearable, hahahahahahahahahah.....
05 January, 2004
Out of Order
Once again, the world changes....
Today's task is to paste an Out of Order sign on something, to see if social disintegration will begin due to the soda machine not working.
Out of Order sign provided.
I can't do it.
Because I am tempted to paste it to me.
How could something that's been so wonderful suddenly turn so dreadful over the course of one day? Why am I so deeply invested? How can I regain my equilibrium? Why can't I distance myself enough to avoid this pain?
Never mind. I've done with whining. It's boring even to me.
My sister turns old today...how old? Hell, I've lost track of my age, can't be bothered with hers. I did make it to her birthday party/open house, so got to lose the guilt over that one. The remodel is fantastic, and I hope she'll "switch lives" with me sometime, though she was so traumatized by her major screwup with losing the dog last time, she probably will never make the offer again.
Today's task is to paste an Out of Order sign on something, to see if social disintegration will begin due to the soda machine not working.
Out of Order sign provided.
I can't do it.
Because I am tempted to paste it to me.
How could something that's been so wonderful suddenly turn so dreadful over the course of one day? Why am I so deeply invested? How can I regain my equilibrium? Why can't I distance myself enough to avoid this pain?
Never mind. I've done with whining. It's boring even to me.
My sister turns old today...how old? Hell, I've lost track of my age, can't be bothered with hers. I did make it to her birthday party/open house, so got to lose the guilt over that one. The remodel is fantastic, and I hope she'll "switch lives" with me sometime, though she was so traumatized by her major screwup with losing the dog last time, she probably will never make the offer again.
04 January, 2004
I didn't know
Once again, the world changes....
It turns out that yesterday, what I threw away is something that I value very highly, "like" being too lukewarm a term.
And that Day 3 is changing my life more dramatically than I could possibly have imagined.
Today's task: World Coloring In Day. I am having trouble with this one, as I am coding with color for "been there" (green) "intend to go within the year" (blue) "intend to go someday" (yellow) and "happy to never never go there" (red). There is no option for "sure, if I get the opportunity and cheap airfare" but there should be. Well, guess what? There is now. I designate purple.
I am already not following the rules, and it's only Day 4.
It turns out that yesterday, what I threw away is something that I value very highly, "like" being too lukewarm a term.
And that Day 3 is changing my life more dramatically than I could possibly have imagined.
Today's task: World Coloring In Day. I am having trouble with this one, as I am coding with color for "been there" (green) "intend to go within the year" (blue) "intend to go someday" (yellow) and "happy to never never go there" (red). There is no option for "sure, if I get the opportunity and cheap airfare" but there should be. Well, guess what? There is now. I designate purple.
I am already not following the rules, and it's only Day 4.
Summation of the Day
Once again, the world changes....
Recipe for improved attitude:
1 girlfriend
1 bottle wine, not too expensive
1 book
4 websites, limit of 1 porn
several assorted men, various relationships, as topics of discussion
1 impending cool project
2 or more slices chocolate cake
3 silly e-mails, sent without censoring
Mix enthusiastically, follow with restful sleep.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I arrive at Watergate! audition/rehearsal much improved from yesterday, and, though when I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, I can still taste lingering hurt, bitterness and resentment, the sweet flavor of joy and accomplishment is satisfying indeed.
Task for today/yesterday, 3 January, is to throw away something I like. There's a tough one, but I was up for it. Wonder how Jonas is doing?
Recipe for improved attitude:
1 girlfriend
1 bottle wine, not too expensive
1 book
4 websites, limit of 1 porn
several assorted men, various relationships, as topics of discussion
1 impending cool project
2 or more slices chocolate cake
3 silly e-mails, sent without censoring
Mix enthusiastically, follow with restful sleep.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I arrive at Watergate! audition/rehearsal much improved from yesterday, and, though when I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, I can still taste lingering hurt, bitterness and resentment, the sweet flavor of joy and accomplishment is satisfying indeed.
Task for today/yesterday, 3 January, is to throw away something I like. There's a tough one, but I was up for it. Wonder how Jonas is doing?
03 January, 2004
Something New
Once again, the world changes....
In walks Ginny with a bottle of wine, which she insists we finish, so we do.
The wee hours are spent in girltalk and giggles, and tipsy e-mails to people who might be amused by them. My underlying morose is pushed to murky depths.
At three am, we pack in, as we're working tomorrow.
"Cybbie? Can I sleep with you?"
Hmm.
Do I say Yes?
When do I not?
Not much sleep, but no nightmares, either.
In walks Ginny with a bottle of wine, which she insists we finish, so we do.
The wee hours are spent in girltalk and giggles, and tipsy e-mails to people who might be amused by them. My underlying morose is pushed to murky depths.
At three am, we pack in, as we're working tomorrow.
"Cybbie? Can I sleep with you?"
Hmm.
Do I say Yes?
When do I not?
Not much sleep, but no nightmares, either.
02 January, 2004
Once again, the world changes....
I will be the first to admit that it's my attitude that sucks.
However, what is possibly the most important day in my life so far (not my wedding day, despite what the bridal industry would have us believe) tomorrow, the first rehearsal for Watergate! the Musical, is shaping up to be a meatgrinder.
Or perhaps I mean boilermaker. Either way.
Guilt at not being able to be at my sister's for her open house, disappointment at the probable loss of a talented actor and treasured friend, resentment at the rewrite, anxiety over getting copies made, and the pervasive pain and sadness that accompanies rainy weather are all in league to give me nightmares tonight.
If I sleep at all.
I will be the first to admit that it's my attitude that sucks.
However, what is possibly the most important day in my life so far (not my wedding day, despite what the bridal industry would have us believe) tomorrow, the first rehearsal for Watergate! the Musical, is shaping up to be a meatgrinder.
Or perhaps I mean boilermaker. Either way.
Guilt at not being able to be at my sister's for her open house, disappointment at the probable loss of a talented actor and treasured friend, resentment at the rewrite, anxiety over getting copies made, and the pervasive pain and sadness that accompanies rainy weather are all in league to give me nightmares tonight.
If I sleep at all.
Distasteful Task
Once again, the world changes....
I am sanitizing Watergate! the Musical. It pisses me off to do so, but I am under a lot of pressure. It doesn't matter, what the fuck, I can do this. I can disassociate from my product (I refuse to say 'baby', because I am disassociating, goddamnit) enough to rip it to shreds and hand out a cheapened, lackluster version of the thing because the real McCoy might be too offensive in this idiotically PC world.
Done bitching.
Today I am looking at everyone as if they might be the love of my life. Are you the one? Are you? Are you? How about you? Or you?
This was weird to do with all the kids this morning, but I managed, imagining them in twenty years (and me completely static, not aging at all.)
I had screwed up my template accidentally, fixed it blindly, then screwed it up again. Think one of the links I was trying to include was clogging up the works. But I think it's fixed now. Kind of satisfying to have done it myself.
I am sanitizing Watergate! the Musical. It pisses me off to do so, but I am under a lot of pressure. It doesn't matter, what the fuck, I can do this. I can disassociate from my product (I refuse to say 'baby', because I am disassociating, goddamnit) enough to rip it to shreds and hand out a cheapened, lackluster version of the thing because the real McCoy might be too offensive in this idiotically PC world.
Done bitching.
Today I am looking at everyone as if they might be the love of my life. Are you the one? Are you? Are you? How about you? Or you?
This was weird to do with all the kids this morning, but I managed, imagining them in twenty years (and me completely static, not aging at all.)
I had screwed up my template accidentally, fixed it blindly, then screwed it up again. Think one of the links I was trying to include was clogging up the works. But I think it's fixed now. Kind of satisfying to have done it myself.
01 January, 2004
Happy New Year!
(A brief aside, though I'm not sure it's an aside if I'm making it before I've actually begun): I checked the Whack Stack, and am at the bottom of Page 6, as of this writing. Makes me think there are a lot of people in the world with very little to do. Sad, don't you think?
Looks like 2003 was my year to discover many things, among them that I can, indeed, have female friends. I've never had so many women in my life, I'm getting high on estrogen, perhaps.
Last night was spent with the people I love best in the world, how lucky could I be? AND I got to dance, for the first time since my injury. Did I overdo it? When do I not?
Favorite quotes from 2003:
"I know you're not okay when you call me 'Mommie'"----- my Mother
"What'd you go and do that for?"---- Scotty
"You gotta let your hair down a little, be less inhibited, hah!"----- Kelly
"I love you, too, Lainey."----- J.
"Nowf winds, bwoah! Souf winds, bwoah! Wightning, stwike!"----- Dan
"I do NOT come home for a quick bang and to do my laundry. I'm usually too tired for a quick bang."----- Hawk
"Hell, grow it to the floor, Cat!"---- McGraw
"Twenty Seven scene changes in the second act! Aaaaaahhhhh!"---- CJ
"How should it go? Sing it for me."---- JB
"I would LOVE to be Liddy."----- Brad
"You're always beautiful."---- Pat
"There is no pain, only sensation."----- Hilby
"Who's under the mistletoe?"----- Garrett
(Cough, couch) "Excuse me?" (banging of phone on desk) "What did you say? No, before that! Ah, that's what I thought you said...."---- Steven
"I can't believe you're really HERE!"---- Lisa
"This is a great gig, man! You can leave your gaff tape RIGHT THERE all day, and no one fuckin' TOUCHES it! Brilliant!" ---- Martin
"I have too much privacy, sometimes. Even from myself. I'm not sure what that means."---- -Luke
"I love your messy buns. It looks like you just got out of bed and are about to go back." ---Ginny
"Sometimes there is no why. Sometimes there is only an is."---- Jose
"I don't have the energy to feel guilty AND cook dinner."---- Me
"BRUNCH!!!"- the Tribe
I spend New Year's Day my favorite way, the parade on in the morning (for the sound of marching bands more than anything else) then an absolute glut of Bowl Games. Gator Bowl is the best, though the score isn't even close. Go Terps! Some bowl game in Orlando is at about five minutes remaining when we tune in, and goes into overtime. Perdue loses to Georgia, but it was an exciting half hour. U of Michigan plays hard but is outclassed by Southern Cal, disappointing, but fun anyway. By the time the Orange Bowl is on, I am ready to see good football when I don't really care about the outcome, just the plays. Unfortunately, I'm wiped, and snooze through most of it, having spent only three restless hours pretending to sleep last night. When I wake, I realize I have no idea which is U Miami and which is Florida State, and that I don't much care. I watch til the end anyway. Had not watched a whole game all season, not even Thanksgiving. The Ravens play the Titans on Saturday, hoping to listen on the radio at least.
Today I decided which of my toes is prettiest. It's the second one on the right foot, for the record. I'm working my way through This Book Will Change Your Life, just for grins. Their guinea pig can be found at the associated website. His name is Jonas.
(A brief aside, though I'm not sure it's an aside if I'm making it before I've actually begun): I checked the Whack Stack, and am at the bottom of Page 6, as of this writing. Makes me think there are a lot of people in the world with very little to do. Sad, don't you think?
Looks like 2003 was my year to discover many things, among them that I can, indeed, have female friends. I've never had so many women in my life, I'm getting high on estrogen, perhaps.
Last night was spent with the people I love best in the world, how lucky could I be? AND I got to dance, for the first time since my injury. Did I overdo it? When do I not?
Favorite quotes from 2003:
"I know you're not okay when you call me 'Mommie'"----- my Mother
"What'd you go and do that for?"---- Scotty
"You gotta let your hair down a little, be less inhibited, hah!"----- Kelly
"I love you, too, Lainey."----- J.
"Nowf winds, bwoah! Souf winds, bwoah! Wightning, stwike!"----- Dan
"I do NOT come home for a quick bang and to do my laundry. I'm usually too tired for a quick bang."----- Hawk
"Hell, grow it to the floor, Cat!"---- McGraw
"Twenty Seven scene changes in the second act! Aaaaaahhhhh!"---- CJ
"How should it go? Sing it for me."---- JB
"I would LOVE to be Liddy."----- Brad
"You're always beautiful."---- Pat
"There is no pain, only sensation."----- Hilby
"Who's under the mistletoe?"----- Garrett
(Cough, couch) "Excuse me?" (banging of phone on desk) "What did you say? No, before that! Ah, that's what I thought you said...."---- Steven
"I can't believe you're really HERE!"---- Lisa
"This is a great gig, man! You can leave your gaff tape RIGHT THERE all day, and no one fuckin' TOUCHES it! Brilliant!" ---- Martin
"I have too much privacy, sometimes. Even from myself. I'm not sure what that means."---- -Luke
"I love your messy buns. It looks like you just got out of bed and are about to go back." ---Ginny
"Sometimes there is no why. Sometimes there is only an is."---- Jose
"I don't have the energy to feel guilty AND cook dinner."---- Me
"BRUNCH!!!"- the Tribe
I spend New Year's Day my favorite way, the parade on in the morning (for the sound of marching bands more than anything else) then an absolute glut of Bowl Games. Gator Bowl is the best, though the score isn't even close. Go Terps! Some bowl game in Orlando is at about five minutes remaining when we tune in, and goes into overtime. Perdue loses to Georgia, but it was an exciting half hour. U of Michigan plays hard but is outclassed by Southern Cal, disappointing, but fun anyway. By the time the Orange Bowl is on, I am ready to see good football when I don't really care about the outcome, just the plays. Unfortunately, I'm wiped, and snooze through most of it, having spent only three restless hours pretending to sleep last night. When I wake, I realize I have no idea which is U Miami and which is Florida State, and that I don't much care. I watch til the end anyway. Had not watched a whole game all season, not even Thanksgiving. The Ravens play the Titans on Saturday, hoping to listen on the radio at least.
Today I decided which of my toes is prettiest. It's the second one on the right foot, for the record. I'm working my way through This Book Will Change Your Life, just for grins. Their guinea pig can be found at the associated website. His name is Jonas.